#i just needed to let it out somewhere

[thearcherprentiss]

when it gets to the point that not even your comfort escapes are helping

[excali8ur]

So there's this AU,

[ruporas]

cheers to the future of humanity (and the future of us)

[ID: Digital illustration in color of Vash and Wolfwood from Trigun. The illustration takes place during the ship/home arc, specifically chapter 21. At the center, Vash is grabbing Wolfwood by the collar and pulls him into a kiss in the middle of a celebration. The pair is colored in vibrant warm hues while their surroundings are colored in cooler colors like green and teals. Luida, Brad, Meryl, and Milly are shown amongst the crowd, occupied in the celebrations as Vash and Wolfwood share a moment by themselves at the center. END ID]

[baeshijima]

mmm thoughts of private executioner!blade, who is high priestess!kafka's bodyguard. well, more like her guard dog, as many fearfully seem to think.

he is aloof and gruff and rough around the edges, his name capturing it perfectly. when in the eyes of the public he either keeps to himself or stands ready by kafka's side, but when out he lurks in the shadows ready and waiting to carry out her death orders.

you, yourself, haven't had very many pleasant encounters with him... if you can even call them that. that being said, you haven't had many pleasant encounters with anyone. notorious for your... less than pleasant disposition, for a lack of better words, you have more people who'd rather see you run through than those you can call a friend.

in a dog-eat-dog world, you had no choice but to protect yourself. that, however, ultimately became your demise.

"oh? so you're the one sent to kill me. can't say i'm all that surprised."

standing before you is the feared executioner. his sword is tucked inside the sheath attached to his hip, that ever-present dark swirl of an aura stifling the air. he doesn't say anything, instead opting to silently stare down at your slumped and worn-out form. you find that his gaze doesn't bother you; rather, it's oddly comforting knowing someone will see you in your last moments.

"i've never asked you for a favour before, so this will be my first and last request for you." in all honesty, you're not sure where this chattiness stems from. considering you're currently in a holding cell under the crime of attempted murder towards kafka (a poisoned wine you were most definitely framed for, though you can't say you were surprised) and are awaiting for your turn to be under the guillotine for your public execution, you probably should be a little desperate towards the private executioner in front of you.

and yet, your mind is nothing if not peaceful.

with a huff, you relay your request, "can you make sure it's quick? painless, preferably, but i'd rather you just get it over and done with."

silence blankets the cold chambers. moisture accumulated along the cobble ceiling drip in a steady rhythm, like a clock ticking away the seconds. it's unnerving, almost, how there is not a single sound other than your impending countdown.

"why?" comes his low mutter, effectively causing a ripple within the stagnant air. you almost think you misheard him, but his following words cease the thought, "why won't you ask me for help?"

had it not been for the abrupt shuffle and clanging against the metal bars, you would have never looked up to see him in your last moments.

his scarred hands gripping the metal until his knuckles turn a ghastly white and blood dripping from his palms is what greets your sight. as your gaze slowly trails up, you almost let loose a laugh of disbelief; who would have thought blade, the infamous guard dog of the high priestess, could make such a desperate expression? one looking as though his whole world crumbled before him, in which he can do nothing but sit and watch.

(you will never know of the anger and desperation which coursed through his veins the moment he heard of your predicament. had it been anyone else, he wouldn't have cared. but you're not anyone else; you're you — unapologetically, wholeheartedly. it didn't take him long to hunt down those behind it, cutting them down without thought and putting an end to their miserable lives. he rushed as soon as he could when kafka gave him the order, no thoughts other than you, you, you, occupying his mind.

you will never know of the anguish which overcame him when he found you in such a state, your once healthy complexion and defiant gaze reduced to nothing but a tiredness which had always sat quietly behind your disposition. he's almost positive the muscle which unwillingly keeps him alive tore at the seams from your request, the acceptance in which you displayed causing his mind to go astray. even as he damn-near begs you to rely on him for help — to run away with him to some place no one knows of you and start anew there — you merely smile, resigned and peaceful.

you will never know of how much blade is willing to put on the line for you, for you never made it to see the complete and utter carnage he wrecked in your name.)

[anachilles]

i just love the thought of buck absolutely mcfuckin’ losing it.

in lust? in anger? in any other display of pure emotion? a combination of all three, as a little treat? who knows!

so stoic, so buttoned up, so perfectly in control of himself. every move and every word thought about, because what good has acting or speaking rashly or panicking ever done him? anyone, for that matter?

it’s a mask, though. a coping strategy, trauma response, whatever you want to call it. still himself, technically, but a perfectly manufactured shroud for every other part of himself to hide beneath. because still waters run deep.

so he buries and represses and bottles it all up in the base of his chest, grits his teeth, and carries on. turns the valve sometimes when the pressure’s mounting and lets a little slip out, but never enough to fully relieve it.

during and after the war though, that takes its toll. which is why bucky pushes and prods and provokes him when he can see plain as day the pent up feeling is starting to eat away at him. a biting joke here, a pointed but unprovoked question there. not letting up when he’s shirked off, because buck needs that.

the other men - boys, some of them - revere him. bucky doesn’t. well, he does. in his own way. reveres him in the cut of his mouth as it drags along the dip in his collarbone, the line of his hip, or the crease of his thigh. but he reveres all that of gale, his gale, the man, rather than the great and hallowed major ‘buck’ cleven.

so, when the other man so clearly needs it (and even sometimes when he doesn’t really, but bucky’s also a little shit) he pushes and prods and provokes when it’s needed. and sometimes buck just… loses it. and releases all that pressure like a soda bottle that bucky’s just taken, shaken up, then ripped the lid off.

you can treat someone lovingly without handling ‘em with kid gloves.

raw emotion, heated words, scrabbling hands, his distinctive western rasp almost a growl, teeth sometimes.

and bucky loves it.

[triglycercule]

nightmare's gang but they're one of those youtube family channels that extorts the kids. HEAR ME OUT HEAR ME OUT

i mean cmon man managing his multiversal takeover scheme must take a lot of money. nightmare needs a source of income. so what better than to torture and extort his gang even more. he makes them behave and act entertaining for the camera because if not they get beat and punished. he has cameras everywhere in the castle for content and to monitor everyone. people online are worried about the "kids" on the channel because they are CLEARLY being abused and exploited. nightmare gets a feast of negativity from these peoples' worries. now do i think that he would be cruel enough to force his gang to act like children for this channel?? i dunno,,,,,,,, perchance (YOU CAN'T JUST SAY PERCHANCE)

idk there's definitely a lot more than could be done with this stupid idea. but i just think,,,,,, i just think it would be funny,,,,, think about it,,,,,,,,,,

[puppyeared]

i feel like im not making any sense but does anyone else feel like there are stories that let u run with them and ones that spell everything out for you

[siryyeet]

Oh you have complicated feelings towards Germany? Let me make 91836373 assumptions about it with my piss poor understanding of history, not listen to germans at all and then come to a horrendously bad and false conclusion on why that is! Also I think you germans should stop feeling guilty and be proud of your country again!

[lotus-pear]

BOY WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT NEW CHAPTER........

[just-null]

How do we feel about Beach wear Noritoshi....

Everyone thinks he'd go covered head to toe wearing those wet suits divers use, but no. Noritoshi isn't the type to want to attract attention to himself when it's not needed, so he'd try to blend in. Emphasis on try.

He's the guy wearing a covering or some shit. I think you'd have to fight him to wear a translucent one. (if you splash him with water, you'll acheive the same effect thoughahahaha) even though it's a beach, he's trying to find an appropriate way to cover up, hes just like that. yes to sunscreen ofc. I can see him in a sun hat, but it's not his.. maybe he took it from one of the girls

HIS HAIR WOULD BE UP BC ITD BE TOO HOT AND THE SUN HAT WOULD HELP HIM FROM GETTING OVERHEATED H.H....H IS FACE WOULD BE FLUSHED BC OF THE HEAT AND. AND. AND.. he's like the beach babe on the shore, soaking up the sun and reading a book or smth. if you splash him with water, i can see him trying to get you back. then boom bam, hes in the water with everyone else.

OH FUCK that's even IF he goes to the beach. it's like seeing God in the flesh, idk man I'd go blind........... hed probably come along when he realizes theres hot people at the beach. he cant have you looking at people in that state, hold on hes going. give him five minutes..!

EXTRA

[untied covering version under the cut. like his booefjehsaf are out aha.]

ahahahahahahahahaa *froths at the mouth*

mf dont even begin to look at me like that

[bendycxmet]

content: 825 words. fluff, lil suggestive (mostly in another language), spanish speaking wolfwood, cowboy/vaquero wolfwood

Cowboy!Wolfwood who needs a farmhand for his ranch. He sees the desperation in your eyes as you peruse the shops in town, and offers you the position.

Cowboy!Wolfwood who is smooth in every way possible, all lingering gazes, hot, fleeting touches as he instructs and shows you how to fix the gate fencing in his cattle. The first time he brought you to his ranch miles away from town, he hopped off his horse and immediately helped you down as well, but instead of letting go of your hands, he gripped them tighter, turning them over this way and that, inspecting something you perhaps hadn’t seen. Your heart rate increases, a blush spreading along your body as he rubs his callused hands and fingers against the soft flesh of your own. “Que delicadas…” he muses, and drops your hands, sadly, the warmth of him whisked away with the biting wind.

Cowboy!Wolfwood dresses always in his signature suede sombrero, with a black and silver embroidered poncho constantly hiding the matching black underneath, the only difference being the brown leather chaps just running short from the bottom of his dirtied and muddy boots that stomp down the hallway early in the morning, rousing you from your sleep in your assigned bedroom. It’s an outfit that wouldn’t be flattering if it were on anyone else but Wolfwood. 

Cowboy!Wolfwood and you slowly become used to each other’s company, working in fluidity to keep the ranch running like a well-oiled machine. You discover he has a joking side to him once the ice thaws between the two of you, cracking constant jokes at you with a toothpick lodged between his teeth–a habit he now has as he attempts to kick cigarettes since you mentioned you hate the smell. 

As easygoing as he is, he takes his ranch responsibilities seriously. You watch as he rides his stallion, hands off from the reins as he twirls and lassos a stray calf, muscled thighs hugging his steed, hips following the rhythm of her trotting. Your eyes never leave his form, your body hot from watching his. A loud whistle cuts through your ogling.

“Mind opening the gate?” he shouts, chuckling at your stuttering. You quickly open it for him, watching as he guides the calf inside to join her herd. He stops in front of you, poking fun at your flustered state.

“I just think you ride Angelina so gracefully! I wish I could ride a horse as good as you.” 

He laughs lowly and moves to leave through the gates, but not before you hear him mumble “tengo algo más que puedes montar…”

Cowboy!Wolfwood isn’t just a cowboy living on the outskirts of a town that welcomes him, but he also holds the duty of a priest, going into town for Sunday morning mass, shaking hands with everyone, exchanging easygoing smiles and inquiries into each and every person’s daily life. From your spot across the street, you would think he was a different man from the one who curses when he gets a splinter, but a glance down erases all doubt as you see the same dirty boots that traverse the ranch home’s hallways peeking out from his priestly garments.

“Not very Catholic of you to wear your boots with those robes you know. Why not wear the dress shoes you have shoved in the back of the hallway closet?”

He leans down from behind to whisper in your ear, rosary gracing your shoulder. 

“It’s simply not how I work, mi cielo,” his answer comes quickly, quick enough that he’s conversing with a blonde churchgoer by the time you whip your head around. 

Cowboy!Wolfwood’s lingering gazes no longer linger, the grazing touches turning into caresses even in the midst of your duties. Your bantering and joking only intensify as does your chemistry, but Wolfwood begins to throw in more flattering remarks about your work, and you. Mi alma. Corazón. Tesoro. His nicknames for you begin to flow and ebb seamlessly into your conversations, so smoothly said that you nearly miss them each time. But he never turns his loving words into actions. You begin to get impatient.

Cowboy!Wolfwood’s eyes widen, his toothpick falling from his lips.

 “Come again?” he asks you. 

“Si no me besas en el próximo momento, ya me voy de aquí. Wolfwood, please.” 

He crosses the distance between you in half the time it would usually take him. 

“How long have you known what I have been saying?” he begs you, the embarrassment evident on his tanned cheeks, the callused hands you have been dreaming of holding you like that first day coming up to caress your jaw. 

“Desde el día que te conocí,” you say. Since I met you… I have loved you since the day I met you. 

He brings his face down to you, soft and sun-chapped lips meeting yours, his sombrero tipping to fall to the dirt behind him. 

a/n: pspsps @ayyydra and @aboveweirdest for all our screaming about cowboy wolfwood, i deliver some HCs xoxo

i tried to keep it gender neutral as possible but damn spanish is a very gender heavy language (that being said, there is many nicknames i wanted wolfwood to call you e.g. precioso/a (precious), hermoso/a (beautiful), querido/a (beloved) but the ones i wrote out are for everyone.

some translations:

“Que delicadas…” = "How delicate..."

"Tengo algo más que puedes montar…"= "I have something else you can ride..."

"Mi cielo. Mi alma. Corazón. Tesoro." = My heaven/sky/darling (idk it can mean many things). My soul. My heart. My treasure.

“Si no me besas en el próximo momento, ya me voy de aquí." = "If you don't kiss me in the next moment, I'm leaving this place."

"Desde el día que te conocí." = "Since the day I met you."

masterlist

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[cuoredimuschio]

okay, but where's my steddie AU where steve wants to learn to play guitar to impress a girl he's infatuated with and he remembers that munson kid was always hanging up posters for his weird band at school, so he hikes out to eddie's usual dealing spot behind the track and asks (with far less groveling than he really should have) if eddie will teach him how to play, and obviously eddie says no because why would he want to help king steve, but of course, steve offers to pay him, $20 a week, and well, that's the kind of get-the-hell-out-of-this-shithole-town cash eddie really can't afford to refuse, so fine, he'll teach steve to play and they'll spend inordinate amounts of time together tucked away in eddie's room and they'll start to see that they have more in common than they thought and that they kind of had each other all wrong, and eddie will put his hand over steve's to help him get the placement for a tricky chord and it totally won't awaken anything in either of them?? where is it??

edit: i started writing it

[lightbulb-warning]

so has anyone figured out WHY there is the Need To Share our Artworks™ or is it just the vibes and our Soul apparently

[darkkitty1208]

on fic writing and fandom: where am i going forward?

So. It's a bloody dull Friday and I'm writing this post--have been meaning to, for a while--because I can't stop thinking about it. It's just a few (a lot, actually) thoughts I've had in my mind the past few days that I've decided to spill into a single post, which turned out far longer than it needed to be, but nothing too important. Under the cut.

I've been a fanfic writer for a while now. Not a long time by any means, but a while nonetheless. My first fic--which is now orphaned like a few of its brothers for undisclosed reasons, though if you're an og you might be able to guess why--was dated back to the 18th of November 2021. 3 years later and I've got a humble 89 works and counting (the orphaned works and unposted wips unincluded). I can safely say I've improved quite a lot since then.

Where are you going with this, then, Kitty? Surely you aren't here just to brag about your writing progress?

Well. Not exactly. But I'll start with this: I guess what I'm trying to say is I've lost the spark.

You know. The old feeling. That boost of serotonin you get after you finish a piece you're proud of, or when you get lovely reviews on ao3, or when you get a kudos email, or a new mutual, or some wild tags under your silly post. The spark. I haven't felt it in a long time, now. The last time it's been so palpable was... I'm not sure. Probably last year's October. That was a lot of fun. I was most prolific in fic writing, that year. It shouldn't feel like a long time ago. Because it wasn't.

Don't get me wrong. I love all this. All that's going on right now. The comments I'm getting--even if fewer than I had before--and all the other interactions, I appreciate and enjoy and love them so, so much. And writing my newer fic projects are well exciting. But it just isn't the same anymore. I'm afraid it never will be.

(Maybe it has something to do with the lack of interactions lately. Maybe? I don't really know, either. I'm sure we're all well aware the fandom is past its peak, and with the current developments in the MCU I am frankly unsurprised, but I dunno.)

I guess that's part of the reason I've been less active lately. I've been inactive as a whole this year, admittedly, and disappearing far too often for far too long (and I notice some of my friends are, too). I just didn't get the same joy from being in a fandom like I had when I first started this blog, or my ao3 account.

In hindsight, I've probably been a little too dependent on fandom to provide me serotonin. The past few years have been hard, the years before that, too. Life just keeps kicking me in the arse time and time again. I guess I've been using fandom and fic writing as a coping mechanism, and once I've had my fill, the joy dies off to something a little more dull. Like a gum I've been chewing for too long that the sweetness has since worn off.

Honestly? I don't want it to be this way. I want to live without being so dependent on my presence online. I want to live without only knowing joy through internet interactions. I've got to learn to. It sounds silly, but it's true. (I think I may be slightly chronically online, oh no. x'D)

So naturally my first instinct is to distance myself a little. I contemplated quitting, but I can't do that. I don't see myself ever doing that, no matter how many times my brain convinces me that I might.

When this year started, I had set some goals for writing. One of them was to write for more whumptober prompts than I did last year or complete them all. I did like 21 prompts or something last year. Of 31. Within a little more than a month. While still balancing all the life stuff I had going on. This is, if not obvious, an extremely ambitious goal. I am not insane. I don't know what I was thinking. I can't possibly do that now, can I? Not with all the stuff that's been happening.

...

Can I?

...

Yeah, no. Definitely not.

See, that's another thing: writing. Probably the thing I'm trying to get at in this post but otherwise derailed completely from. Fuck my brain.

I'm sure many of you have noticed that I've been writing significantly less. I still post, obviously, but not as much as like, last year when the number of works I had went from a few to far too much. That had helped me improve quite a lot, actually, but those days I barely slept because I just insisted to replace my sleep time with Writing Shit For The Gays. It was pretty unhealthy now that I look back at it. My sleep schedule is still shit now but, yk. Some things just never change.

I was really, really caught up on wanting to be good at writing. Like, really good. I wanted to make awesome things. I wanted to write like a real fucking pro. Like all the more popular fandom authors I look up to. I want to be like the big dogs in fandom. It sounds so silly. I did everything; sprinting daily, setting a minimum of 500 words writing sessions every day, trying new writing styles, churning out works after works, writing for prompts and events and gifts and the like. I was enjoying it, yes, but was it really something I did for myself? Or was it because I wanted to please other people or impress other people for their validation, which is something I'm entirely too dependent of? Was it for the numbers?

Well. It was more for that than for me, I realised a little too late.

So yeah. Fuck wanting to be good. I want to write for the hell of it. I want to write something that's for me. Not what the majority of the fandom or other people want to read, but for me. Which is why I absolutely loved writing works like just a matter of time, how to kill a god, or how to become a god, because they're not meant for other people but myself. (Ironically that last work is a gift but, yk. I still liked it.) I know I joke about self-projecting a lot, but it's been seriously helping me rediscover the joy of writing that doesn't come from the incessant need to be good or perfect or focus on producing more and more and more. It makes me feel like a kid again. Also, I'm only realising this now but I'd rather get like 5 people who enjoy reading my works so much and express them to me rather than 100 people who silently thumbs up at me and then go away to consume another fic or demand more. (All this to say I still love interactions, it just shouldn't be my no. 1 priority to get them when writing fanfics.)

But yeah. None of those works are perfect. They're not meant to be. But they're mine. They're me. They represent me. And it's so, so great to feel that in writing. I've been so stuck up on being some sort of content machine. I'm doing this for myself, how could I forget? I've been saying this since the beginning, I don't know why I'm still struggling to do it. God. It's ridiculous.

Anyway. That's that. This has become a very long ramble. Thank you for listening to my Ted Talk. And for letting me waste your time, if you make it to the end of this post.

[fisheito]

my princess nonsense is being encouraged watch ouyt imabout to be eneaabled

OK WHATF ATHAT'S SO CUTE I HAD TO MAKE IT i know realistically there's little to no chance that rei DOESN'T know how to work heels 🤣 BUT IMAGINE.....ING.... YAKUMO GENTLY GUIDING REI IN HEELS, WEEKS BEFORE THE BIG GALA AND HAVING NONE OF HIS NORMAL FEAR OF PHYSICAL TOUCH BC HIS [TEACHER MODE] IS OVERRIDING HIS INSECURITY

[of-chaos-and-flame]

So I’ve been thinking non stop abt the Somewhere Else is the Life Series AU and I’ve legit started planning out a fic

I decided to have them in Double Life as soulmates, but with the twist that they (along with all the other DL players) have no memories from outside of the game

Of course, Jon’s connection to the Eye means he does Know things that he shouldn’t, but it’s being restricted by the Watchers, who are very curious about the last minute additions to their game.

Both Jon and Martin Know they’re out of place somehow, that they have something Important that they need to do, someone Important they need to find, but are both too scared of potential consequences to bring it up to anyone, so they both settle for teaming up with different groups and hope the others don’t realize something is wrong.

(A certain avian already has, but he’s not about to tip his hand quite so soon…)

I know I want one of them to team up with Martyn for shits and giggles, tho I’m not sure which.

Plenty of confusion and angst potential if it’s Jon (only calling him Littlewood because referring to him as Martyn somehow feels wrong, making an offhand joke or reference and feeling weirdly upset when Littlewood doesn’t Get It, always having someone by his side yet always feeling strangely Lonely)

but also I love the idea of a Martin and Martyn power duo (LittleBlackwood (as Scar so kindly dubbed them) are strangely effective at setting traps and causing chaos, and people were quick to associate an incoming blanket of fog with the troublesome pair)

I’ll have to rewatch DL before I make any concrete decisions, but the Thought Machine is going